


Werewolves Don't Make Good Pets

by Kittenshift17



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Biting, Experiment, Explicit Language, F/M, Violence, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 00:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17570492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenshift17/pseuds/Kittenshift17
Summary: Werewolves don't make good pets. Something Hermione Granger might just have to learn the hard way.





	Werewolves Don't Make Good Pets

“Quit it, or I’ll bite,” Fenrir Greyback threatened the little bitch through clenched teeth, baring his lethal fangs at the witch attempting to draw blood from the inner curve of his very human elbow.

“Must we always devolve to threats?” Hermione Granger sighed, rolling her eyes at the oft-uttered statement. “Every month I come here to draw your blood for my tests, and every month you whine about it like an overgrown pup, Greyback.”

Greyback growled at her menacingly, baring his fangs again.

“Your  _experiments_ , you mean,” he sneered. “One day, Granger, they’re not going to chain me up just right when you come to call. And on that day, I’m going to do a lot more than bite you.”

The witch eyed him drolly for a long moment and Fenrir anticipated another eye-roll and an accusation of being disgusting. 

“Is that so?” she asked instead, raising one eyebrow and shocking him into stillness.

He watched her warily. Any predator knew the danger of a more lethal predator in their midst and Fenrir was beginning to think that this little witch was more predatory than he’d let himself believe. 

She took advantage of his stillness to jab the needle into the vein pulsing in his arm, drawing phial after phial of blood for whatever tests or experiments she’d been running back in that lab of hers. Fenrir would love to know who it was that had given her permission to experiment on him. The day he got free of this prison - and he  _would_  get free - he was going to rip their throat out and feast on their entrails. 

“Well?” she demanded, her eyes fixed on him as she awaited his answer.

“Were it not for theses chains, girly, you’d be on your knees in the middle of the floor and begging me to rut you harder,” Fenrir sneered in a low tone, imagining doing just that. “You’d beg me to bite you, then.”

“You think so?” she asked, tipping her head to one side like a curious mutt as she regarded him. “What makes you so sure?”

“Unchain me, and find out,” Fenrir dared, having to bite back a whine when he caught the scent of her desire and curiosity.

Chained as he was, his ankles and wrists in shackles, his limbs pulled taut and spread-eagled to prevent any more movement than necessary, and a collar around his neck pulling his head back to prevent him from lunging down and biting her, he could do little to act on his threat, or on the desire curling off her. He also couldn’t stop her when she stepped closer, invading his space until the length of her soft, feminine body was pressed against the wiry, heavily muscled form he’d been gifted. 

He couldn’t hold back a low growl when she withdrew her needle from his arm before rubbing herself against him enticingly. He couldn’t pretend the scent of her desire wasn’t affecting him, either, and he wondered if it boded well or ill for him that the little bitch was curious about his anatomy. 

“Is this an effect of the approaching full moon?” she asked curiously, trailing the tips of her fingers over his bare chest and down across his tight abs as he quivered, pulling futilely against his chains, desperate to claim her. 

“No,” he growled truthfully.

He’d be lying to say he hadn’t been enraptured by her scent since he’d first caught a whiff of it so many years ago in the middle of a forest while he hunted fugitives from the Dark Lord’s regime. 

“You always quiver and growl in the presence of a woman?” she asked. “I’ve never noticed before.”

“You’ve never rubbed up against me before, either,” he reminded her. “What are you playing at, girly? Offering a wolf fresh meat is a dangerous game.”

She ignored his warning, slipping her phials and needles back into the leather-bound pouch where she stored them to free both of her hands before she began moving them over him curiously. He didn’t like the gleam in her eyes, Fenrir decided. She might be attracted to the dark threats he uttered, and maybe even to the muscled form he took when he was human, but this one wasn’t  _just_  interested in getting her hands on him for the sake of fucking. 

“What are you after, girly?” he asked, some of his ardor cooling with the knowledge that to her, he would always be just a science experiment she was studying like a beetle under glass.

“You’re quivering,” she pointed out.

“You’re touching me,” Fenrir said in return, his arm muscles flexing as he pulled against his chains. His eyes left the top of her head - all he could see of her with his head pulled back by the chain on his collar - when he felt the bolt in the wall holding his left arm aloft give just a little. He smirked wickedly, flexing again, feeling it give a little more.

“And it makes you quiver?” she asked curiously. “Surely it hasn’t been that long since you’ve been touched...  I know the guards wrestle you into those chains every month.”

“They sedate me before they do it,” Fenrir argued. “Why are you touching me, girly? What are you looking for? What do you want?”

“If I do this...” she began before pressing herself even closer, sliding her arms around his back and laying her cool cheek against the center of his chest, effectively hugging him.

Fenrir stilled completely, ceasing in his yanking on the slowly unbolting chain as his breath caught in his chest at the feel of being hugged. He couldn’t remember anyone  _ever_  hugging him before that moment and he frowned, pulling at the collar on his throat and almost cutting off his own air supply, trying to get a look at the witch. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice coming out strangled, though whether that was the result of the chain choking him, or the wave of strange feelings coursing through him amid the act, Fenrir really couldn’t say.

“Hugging you,” she replied without releasing him. “Your heart is racing. Did you know?”

“Get off me,” Fenrir bit out, his wolf disliking this sense of confusion and weakness suffusing him. 

“You don’t like being hugged?” she asked, pulling back as he’d commanded, much to his surprise. “How odd. Wolves are typically affectionate creatures by nature, and packs often interact by pressing themselves against each other.”

“What are you playing at, Granger?” Fenrir bit out, glaring at her when he could see her again.

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“I’m trying to figure out whether it would ever be safe to release you, should we apply the correct rehabilitation techniques. You know, kind of like a rescue mutt at the pound. Most of those that are so aggressive are that way as a result of poor treatment and neglect. I’ve begun wondering in recent months after some of the exchanges you and I have shared during my visits if you’re not the same way.”

“I’m not a fucking dog!” Fenrir snarled.

“Of course not,” she shook her head, smiling gently. “You’re a wolf. Bigger. Meaner. Wilder. Currently, more prone to violence. But several experiments have found that just as the human race originally domesticated wolves and began breeding them for different things until we have such a wide variety of canines today, you ought to be the same as your lupine ancestors. Meaning that with proper coaxing and care, and a good deal of trust-building, you too ought to be safe for human interaction, once again.”

Fenrir glared at her, a little gobsmacked. She had to be kidding.

“You want to domesticate me?” he scoffed, raising his eyebrows as a laugh bubbled up from within him. “To what end, girly? Going to take me home and have me sleep on your couch and guard your property like a good boy?”

She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him when he laughed meanly.

“You do realise that if you prove not to be a completely vicious killer at every opportunity, I  _could_ get you out of here, don’t you?”

Fenrir froze.

“How?” he asked, flexing his left arm and feeling the bolt in the wall give a little more.

“By telling the Ministry that your cooperation is vital to my research into improving the lives of werewolves all over the world,” she informed him quietly. “What did you imagine I was doing with your blood samples, Fenrir? I’m trying to find a way to allow the wolf and the man inside you to live harmoniously.”

Fenrir yanked on the left-side chain one more time and he felt a sense of satisfaction when the chain pulled free of the wall, granting him movement in his left arm. Quick as lighting, he snatched her closer, heedless of the wand she dug into his throat and the way she began to wriggle.

“What makes you think that’s possible, girly?” he asked, scooping his arm under her arse and hiking her up his body, forcing her to curl her legs around his waist if she wanted to keep from falling. 

Finally able to look her in the eye properly, he smirked at her wickedly. She was glaring at him, her wand digging into his neck, but his entire body ripped itself apart every full moon. No pain could compare to that. She might as well be tickling him, for all she was achieving.

“Put me down, Greyback,” she commanded sternly, clearly still under the impression that she was the one in charge here.

“You want to neutralize the threat werewolves pose,” he surmised for her, ignoring her directive, knowing she wasn’t going to kill him when he was likely the only werewolf she had access to. With Lupin long-dead, no other self-respecting werewolf would let her experiment on them. “But guess what, girly?”

Fenrir twisted slightly, curling his arm around her tighter and reaching with both hands to grip the chain holding his right arm secure. With more range of movement, the bolts holding those chains were nowhere near strong enough to hold him. Not when he could throw some weight behind yanking them, and not with the full moon just hours away. Granger squealed, clinging to him tighter when he pulled hard until the bolt came loose, and both of his arms were free

“What?” she asked, clearly trying to distract him, seeming to sense that until he got his feet and his throat free, he couldn’t yet hurt her too much. “You said, guess what. So, what? What’s wrong with my plan to make lycanthropy safe?” 

Fenrir paused in his attempts to twist far enough around to pull his neck free of the restraints, his arms caging the witch against his chest tightly and forcing her to cling to him desperately to avoid being crushed or injured.

“Lycanthropy isn’t safe,” he sneered into her face. “You think you can just appeal to the sweet nature of the wolf based on what you’ve seen of full-blood wolves and their behavior? You think you can appeal to the humanity of the man? Neither exist, girly. Both are chewed up and spat out when the first change hits. You’re looking at this like a mingling of man and wolf, studying both individually, trying to figure it out. But a werewolf isn’t a wolf, and he isn’t a man. He’s both and he’s neither; he’s something else entirely. _I’m_ something else entirely.”

“But… Remus was…” she argued, frowning at him when he dragged his claws lightly down the length of her back, holding her hostage.

“ _Remus_ was brainwashed by his fanatical father, who hated all werewolves and convinced him to dissect his own nature to such a point that he was scared of his own shadow!” Fenrir growled unkindly. “He was an abomination who couldn’t face what he had become because he was never taught _how_ to navigate being a werewolf. If you think he was harmless, you’re wrong, girly. If you think I could ever be harmless, you’re wrong. And I’m going to prove it.”

With a final yank, he pulled the chains fastened to the collar around his neck from the wall and Granger screamed when he lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the exposed skin at the top of her shoulder where it met her neck. She screamed and she clawed at him, managing to fire off a spell that did little more than rebound right off him.  Every fiber of his being was demanding that he make good on every promise he’d made to rut her to death right there in his cell, but there would be time enough for hunting her down and inflicting such things on her once he’d secured his freedom. It didn’t stop him ripping into her shoulder with vicious glee, however. And with the moon rising, Fenrir wondered if she would become infected, too.

When he pulled back, she was trembling violently, the shock of the bite and likely the burn of the infection beginning to wash through her.

He lowered he back to the ground more gently than he’d initially intended, letting her fall to the floor when her knees gave out beneath her before turning his attention to yanking his ankles free of their chains. When he was loose, he scooped up her wand though he loathed the sticks of death and blasted open the door to his cell. Dropping it once the explosion was rendered, Fenrir reached down to tunnel one clawed hand into her loose curls, tipping her head up and forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Werewolves don’t make good pets, girly,” he smirked at her before crushing his lips against her own and stealing a hard kiss, heedless of her blood on his mouth.

She whimpered when he released her and Fenrir knew he didn’t have to tell her that if she survived whatever became of that bite on her neck, he would hunt her. She could see it in his eyes, and he could smell it in her fear. Winking, Fenrir charged out of the cell, pouncing on the first wizard to run at him, thinking to stop him. A wicked slash of his claws ended the lives of any who impeded him and when he reached the exterior of his prison, Fenrir called on the lycanthropic magic within him to disapparate without a trace.

 


End file.
